


My Brother's Killer

by AymericHugger (HunterTala)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Astrologian Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Au Ra Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Au Ra Xaela (Final Fantasy XIV), Dragoon Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward Spoilers, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Fix-It, I would die for Haurchefant and Aymeric, M/M, Polyamory, Post-Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward, Post-Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood, Summoner Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), What-If, White Mage Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-05-15 13:02:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19296298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HunterTala/pseuds/AymericHugger
Summary: In the wake of the tragedy at The Vault, after the liberation of Doma and Ala Mhigo, after peace was brought to the realm, after the Warrior of Light disappeared and returned, Artoirel de Fortemps is now sitting Lord of House Fortemps. He thought Ishgard would never see Oma'ya again, but a sudden visitor brings with him memories and a conspiracy long thought buried. This time, Oma'ya will not hesitate to put those he loves first.





	1. A Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> This occurred to me when watching The Cutscene TM that the Warrior of Light, once they become the Warrior of Darkness, would no longer be burdened with concerns of maintaining people's good opinions of them or respecting conventions.

In the months after the disaster at the Vault, no one in Ishgard saw hide or hair of their Warrior of Light. Oma’ya had disappeared once the burial rites for Haurchefant were complete, running in the direction of the Sea of Clouds with Cid and never looking back. If he did come back, it was only to visit the Lord Commander and Mistress Tataru, always leaving after. Artoirel knew the small, by Au Ra standards, sorcerer was hit hard by the death of his bastard brother. He’d only come back to Ishgard to throw the severed head of Archbishop Thordan in front of the cathedral, speared on the same lance he used to lay low the great wyrm Nidhogg. 

There had been whispers in the streets of Ser Haurchefant’s illicit affairs with the Warrior of Light that Artoirel had worked to quell. Some even included Ser Aymeric in their speculations. Heretical in nature, but legal. Artoirel, despite the frigid front he put up in the face of such rumors that sought to discredit his brother more than he already was, knew them to be true. Haurchefant and Ser Aymeric had been far closer to the Warrior of Light than anyone else in Ishgard could have anticipated. It was evident in the way Oma’ya had fallen to his knees, wailing in a fit of uncharacteristic despair in front of the broken shield on the grave. Seeing the man who faced down Eikons without so much as blinking an eye and went home to tend to his crops after saving entire cities break down so completely only heightened the sadness.

The next day, Lord Commander Aymeric made the same journey and he too wept before the final resting place of Haurchefant Greystone, albeit more silently than his partner. They both blamed themselves for the undeserved tragedy. Artoirel had reconciled himself with the fact that they’d managed to drive the Warrior of Light from their streets once and for all. 

It came as a surprise then, when word arrived at Fortemps Manor via messenger that the Warrior of Light was seen heading toward the Gates of Judgement. But, the message read, he looked different. Artoirel stood from his desk and moved to the window where he could see Oma’ya’s tail just flicking through the manor doors. Artoirel sat down at the desk in his study just as loud footsteps sounded down the hall. 

The doors to the Fortemps study flew open under the pressure of an armored boot. Oma’ya Ra’zak walked in, bedecked in the heavy armor of a paladin that, upon closer inspection, seemed to be made of dragon scales. He stalked up to the desk with that predatory glide Au Ra seemed to all have, eyes shaded behind the helm he wore. Only his bright limbal rings glowed out, two lights lit by rage. 

Oma’ya, before Artoirel could call out any sort of greeting, slammed a shield on the desk, uncaring of all the papers he ruined on the way. Artoirel felt fear start its slow crawl down his back. This was not Oma’ya the gentle weaver and fisher. This was Oma’ya Ra’zak, slayer of primals and dragons alike. He looked down and was immediately confused. The Fortemps kite shield sat on his desk, scratched and discolored by intense heat, but the Fortemps shield nonetheless. 

“Wha-” said Artoirel. The frigid glare from Oma’ya stopped him from speaking further. 

“Tell me.” said Oma’ya. He tilted his head down so he did not make eye contact with that face. So similar to his. “Tell me why this one is still in one piece.” 

“Well, House Fortemps has always prided itself on the quality of its armory. Is this the shield you took with you on your last departure from Ishgard? I’m pleased to see it has held up on all your daring adventures.” explained Artoirel. An altogether innocent query on the Warrior of Light’s part, but the unease did not depart. 

Oma’ya drifted over to the window that overlooked the Last Vigil, placed a hand on the chilled glass. Snow fell on the outside, like glittering stars. 

“I took that shield with me, yes, and protected myself with it against all manner of horrors. I fought Thordan’s resurrection with it, held it strong against even Lahabrea’s fury. I felled Bahamut with this shield in hand.” Omaya retold. 

“I can’t say I’m surprised you managed to down the Elder Primal but I’m even more surprised the Fortemps shield was enough to protect yourself.”

“Your house shield is great for many things. Acts of heroics are not one of them. The armor I wear is more than enough to protect me. I had a point to prove.” Here Oma’ya turned back to where Artoirel sat, and framed against the white outside the window, appeared as a vengeful deity. His claws scratched against the armor, the sound grating on the ear and making Artoirel flinch. He stomped up to the desk and brought those clawed hands down on the wood with a slam. 

“So I’ll ask you again. Why did your shield, without any enhancements whatsoever, manage to hold up against even Akh Morn without cracking, when his did not?” 

That dreadful feeling that had crawled down Artoirel’s spine latched on with a fury, evolving into full blown panic. He’d thought those skeletons buried. 

“I spoke with Lord Francel on my way here.” The Warrior of Light had always been close to the Hailenharte lord. “He spoke of Haurchefant’s excitement when he first brought that kite shield home. He would not stop talking about how he would finally be recognized as a son of Fortemps, how his oldest brother handed him the shield himself” 

Artoirel could see where this was going and did not want a bit of it. 

“Haurchefant will have to forgive me, as I removed his shield from his old resting place and had my guildmaster at the Armorer’s guild look over the break.” Here Oma’ya looked up into Artoirel’s eyes and the young lord found not fury there anymore, only sorrow and simmering vengeance. The young dragoons were correct in comparing the Warrior of Light’s gaze to staring down a demon from the depths of hell. 

“Imagine my surprise when I was told the interior of the shield, underneath the house crest, was fractured with a chisel, almost deliberately, as what armorer in their right mind would compromise the integrity of such a vital piece of armor? And then I step back and actually think.” 

Oma’ya started to pace, his armor glinting menacingly in the dim light. 

“Haurchefant was an accomplished knight, one I dare say the paladins of old would have been honored to call their own. He brought honor to his name, but he was a bastard. An unforgivable sin of no one else’s fault but his circumstance. It must be so humiliating, as the eldest legitimate son, outdone in the field by a brother who was, in the eyes of Ishgard, no better than the common folk in the Brume. Humiliating enough, for a son aiming to become lord one day, to attempt something desperate. But you were assured. As a bastard, Haurchefant would never hold any position of importance, his poorly disguised exile to Camp Dragonhead notwithstanding. Then, Ser Aymeric, a rumored bastard, is risen to the position of Lord Commander of the Temple Knights. And you really became desperate.” 

Beads of sweat formed on Artoirel’s head despite the biting chill around them that only seemed to plummet further with Oma’ya’s words. Those glowing eyes, alight with more than just Au Ra biology, smoked with aether. Purple this time, it curled in tendrils around his body. Righteous fury lined his posture. 

“Tell me, Lord Fortemps, did you get all you wanted, knowing that your petty jealousy has cost your father a son and Ishgard one of its last few honorable warriors? Were you pleased to know that you would get away with it?”


	2. A Conversation Long Overdue

When Artoirel did not say anything, more from shock and fear than anything, the Warrior of Light collapsed, as if someone had just slid the ground out from beneath his feet, legs splayed haphazardly and hands braced on the ground with his head bowed. 

“So it’s true. I didn’t want to believe it but it’s true.” 

He sounded so defeated and drained of all hope. It was not a tone people were used to hearing from one so accomplished. 

Artoirel carefully, gingerly placed his hands back on the armrests of his chair where they had been curled around his head before. If he was to fall, he would do it with dignity befitting a scion of House Fortemps. 

“I….I did not mean for it to end this way, of this you have to believe me, Oma’ya. For all our sakes, was I ever the man to be so politically minded?” said Artoirel.  
“I would not know. It seems I know nothing about you after all.” Oma’ya’s voice came out choked and nasal, holding back tears. 

“Really, Oma’ya, you must believe me. I would never intend my brother to die in such a heinous way! It was meant to be a bit of fun! Nothing at Camp Dragonhead is lethal to a knight of Haurchefant’s caliber, of that I knew even as a youth! I’ll admit to tampering with his shield but the resulting injury was meant to be nothing more than a scratch or a broken limb!” here Artoirel stopped to regain his composure that he’d lost over the course of the tirade. 

“I’ll also confess… a younger, weaker me thought it only fortuitous should my bastard brother die from that faulty shield.” he murmured. “But I swear to you the Heavens Ward and their machinations were completely hidden from me!”

Oma’ya paused in his weeping with great effort at those words, something he’d never considered. In a flash his paladin armor disappeared and the dark robes of a black mage appeared in its place. He leapt from the ground, over the desk, and closed a leather gloved hand around Artoirel’s throat faster than a steel trap, squeezing cruelly. 

Artoirel found himself slammed against the wall of the study, right underneath the portrait of his father and the late Haurchefant himself, who was only given the honor recently. Oma’ya’s claws poked through his gloves and Artoirel could not bring himself to even swallow for fear of drawing blood. That staff, wreathed in astral fire fueled by anger, was brought up near the young lord’s face. 

“What did you just say? Give me one reason why I shouldn’t burn this manor to the ground!” snarled Oma’ya. 

“Peace! Please, friend, lay down your arms and let us speak as gentlemen!” Artoirel clutched at the hand around his throat as he made his plea, staring into those eyes from which fat tears still streamed. The fire drew closer. 

“Please! Spare me! He wouldn’t have wanted you to do this!” 

For a moment the fury left Oma’ya and the fire dimmed, only to blaze brighter a mere heartbeat later. 

“Don’t presume to tell me about his wants when you have only ever cared about your own!”

Artoirel thought himself a dead man. Then the flames went out and Oma’ya put the staff away. 

“But you are right. For all his damned suffering at the hands of your house, traditions be damned!” Oma’ya cut off Artoirel’s attempt at defending his house. The young lord, figuring himself already on the walk to Halone’s halls anyway, pressed on.   
“Despite what you may think of me now, know that no one else in House Fortemps participated in my folly! They are completely innocent and I won’t have you slandering them like this!” Artoirel’s furious defence ignited Oma’ya’s own righteous fury again. Like two embers constantly feeding off one another, heating and cooling as one.

“That it may be, but they still are just as guilty for having done nothing! Watching a murder and not doing anything to help is still participating in murder!” 

“What could we have done? Fortemps is one of the four High Houses of Ishgard! It is through us that the holy traditions are upheld! You would have us disregard a thousand years of rigid social structure for the sake of one bastard child?”

“Yes I would! I have done the same time and time again! So has Ser Aymeric and don’t you stand here and say the High Houses can do nothing against tradition! Over and over the other houses have proven themselves at the very least open to change, why can’t it get through your pampered skull that Ishgard is fucked up! Haurchefant loved you! He loved this House and it’s only because of that love that I haven’t crisped your sorry asses yet!” The cultured language Ishgard was so accustomed to hearing from the Warrior of Light, painfully cultivated to avoid offending people, was slipping away to reveal the rougher accent of a true Xaela tribesman. 

“Is that it? Am I to be arrested and tried then?” The tremor in his heart did not show up in his voice, for which Artoirel ought to be rewarded. 

“No. Lords know why but I won’t rat you out to the Temple Knights. Even Aymeric doesn’t know why I’m here. It’s gonna be a secret between you and me. I won’t tell anybody.”

“You would turn and protect the man who, by your words, effectively murdered the love of your life?”

“He wouldn’t want me to become a murderer in his name. But I don’t care anymore if this city state burns to the ground out of its own folly. I’ll just move his grave elsewhere.” 

“Haurchefant was born here!” 

“And? Thousands of soldiers are buried far from their homelands. Why do you think war graves exist?” 

The Warrior of Light abruptly pulled away from where he was in Artoirel’s personal space. In another flash, that peculiar equipment spell of his, Oma’ya was clad in distinctly Sharlayan clothes. 

“I’m tired and I have to speak with Leveva. If you’ll excuse me, Lord Fortemps, I have to leave now,” murmured Oma’ya. It was true. He was exhausted beyond belief, not just with Ishgard and the recent revelations but with fighting for Eorzea on a whole. Warrior of Light? More like Weapon of Light. Something to be pointed in the direction of disasters caused by man’s own arrogance. The little trip to another world after being dispersed in the aether for so long did a lot to clear his vision of both Eorzea and Hydaelyn’s influence. Oma’ya wanted nothing more than to wash his hands of everything and just live as a weaver for the rest of his days. Maybe start breeding chocobos for the Saucer in his spare time. 

***

Artoirel could not get his clash with Oma’ya out of his head for the rest of the day and it came to a point in the middle of the night when he could stand it no longer. He put on his coat, boots, and took the Fortemps cane with him as he left, notifying no one of where he was going. The snow yielded readily beneath his soles and the falling flurry quickly covered up any footprints he left behind. 

When he arrived Artoirel could scarcely see the gravestone under all the snow. He patiently brushed it away before sinking to his knees in front of the broken shield, laid there so many moons ago. He didn’t say anything. He figured the Fury would convey his thoughts to Haurchefant in her halls anyway. 

_Haurchefant, if you can hear me. I really should have visited sooner. I know I deserve none of your forgiveness. I was horrible and petty and cared only for myself. It shames me that the Warrior of Light had to have me by the throat before I was willing to admit. I fear I would have kept silent for good otherwise. But hiding in my sins makes me no better than those of the Heavens Ward and Thordan himself._

_This morning I will draft a bill to obtain equal standing for all illegitimate children recognized by their houses. Mayhap if you had been treated in the streets with the same legality as the rest of us lordlings you would have enjoyed a higher post and been nowhere near the fighting at the Vault._

_I hope you know that, thought it was my petty jealousy that lead to your end, I really did think of you as a real brother, once you were brought back to the manor in our adulthood. I said nothing because of that same jealousy that yet still plagues me. Seeing you with the Warrior of Light, bringing honor to our House, made me at once envious and proud and at that time I knew not what to do with such feelings. I would want you to know that, my mistakes are my own and Father truly did love you like a trueborn son._

_Father misses you. He cannot walk past your portrait in the manor still without weeping. Ser Aymeric from what I hear champions everything he does in your name. And Lord Ra’zak purged those who killed you for good. Thanks to your sacrifice, the Warrior of Light lived to save all of Eorzea and beyond. He liberated Doma and Ala Mhigo almost simultaneously you know. You are a lucky man._

_Ishgard is doing well, I know that was one of your concerns when you were still with us. Emmanelain presides over Camp Dragonhead in your absence. He is not quite up to your level but he tries. Hearing of your valiance and sacrifice has only boosted morale of the new recruits. Ser Aymeric retains his good standing and is working towards building an Ishgard you can be proud of, one that I now know should leave old relics of traditions behind. You were right when you said a knight lives to serve, to protect, and to sacrifice. There is truly no greater calling for a soul a noble as your own. Would that I could muster up even an onze of that same resolve. I can only pray that when we meet again, I will have become a man deserving of your respect._

On that knoll, time slipped by slowly and yet before he knew it the sun was rising and Artoirel’s cheeks stung from the bite of tears freezing in their tracks. He stood up just in time to see the Lord Commander take his place. Knowing he had no right to intrude upon a man’s words with his lover, Artoirel withdrew to the manor to draft up the promised bill.


	3. Astral Stasis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a note, no knowledge of Shadowbringers is necessary beyond the trailer as ya boy hasn't gotten passed Stormblood yet.

Ser Aymeric knelt down in front of Haurchefant’s grave and spared himself a moment of silence to just _be._ Let the Lord Commander fall away and just be Aymeric. Even in death Haurchefant was the easiest to relaxed around. He said nothing, empty of all thoughts but those that would be inappropriate for the ears. 

 

_We’re doing okay by ourselves so you can relax and have that rest you always deserved. We’ll join you soon, so wait for us a little longer okay?_

 

He would have visited longer but the duties of the Lord Commander were many and he knew Lucia would be back to retrieve him soon enough. He put a hand on the shield, over the unicorn and brushed down to the name engraved on the stone, through the lance hole. 

 

*** 

 

Oma’ya was still in bed when Aymeric returned. Being an Au Ra, he could sleep in no other positions but his stomach and so looked as a corpse on the sheets. At least, he would have if not for the gentle but rumbling snoring coming from his chest. His star globe lay propped up against the wall under the window. He’d been so proud when he brought it home, full of parts broken off the Ultima Weapon. He’d been practicing with it an awful lot lately. Whatever Oma’ya’s plan was, Aymeric knew not but that he would support him through it all. They’d both previously only been drawn together by their mutual love of Haurchefant but after the Vault their grief led them to take comfort in one another. 

 

It took but moments for Aymeric to strip himself of his complicated ceremony armor and slipped back under the covers. For an Au Ra Oma’ya exuded a lot of heat, enough to have warmed Aymeric’s side of the bed. Previously the Lord Commander’s bed was large enough to fit three. It now slept two. 

 

“Hey. You’re back. Did he say anything?” murmured Oma’ya, not yet fully awake. He propped himself up on one elbow and turned to face Aymeric. The sunlight streaming in through the window made him seem an angel descended from Halone’s halls. It was the most beautiful thing Aymeric had seen all morning. 

 

He reached out to tuck a stray strand of pink hair behind the arch in Oma’ya’s horns and returned the gentle smile. 

 

“Not today, no. But he’ll reply someday. Are we going to have dinner again today, or do you have another plan, my love?” 

 

“I don’t. We should have something nice today. I missed seeing you while I was away.”

 

Time passed differently in the other world but for Oma’ya it had been years. The feelings that washed over him as he approached the gates of Ishgard remained just as powerful as before. Immense love for those who waited for him. 

 

“How about you accompany me to work then? I know the knights would enjoy having the Warrior of Light there to motivate their training,” plied Aymeric. 

 

Oma’ya took one look at the frigid Ishgardian morning and fell back onto the bed with a whump. 

 

“Too cold. Don’t wanna,” came the muffled voice from the pillow. It was a wonder how he managed to breathe sleeping like that. 

 

“You’d sleep the whole day away if I leave you alone now, love. I know you all too well. Is Lady Leveva not awaiting your presence today?”

 

Oma’ya sat bold upright right then, still fully dressed in Sharlayan robes that were rumpled from collapsing in bed last night without even hanging them up. He’d been in deep conversation with Leveva until the late hours when Aymeric came to drag him back to bed. It was exhausting on his first day back, but it was well worth it for the conjectures they made. Sharlayan astrology was so vastly different from other healing magics he knew. It was well worth it to learn as much as he could while he still could. 

 

Seeing his normally destructive lover suddenly so immersed in the arts of succor, Aymeric could not help but ask, “Are you sure about this?” 

 

Oma’ya turned from where he held his star globe up to the sun, inspecting its components for any faults. 

 

“Is what worth it?” Aymeric responded with a gesture.

 

“You just gestured to all of me,” came the wry reply. 

 

“I meant _this_ _._ Suddenly giving up your lance, your grimoire, your ax, for a star globe and a cane? This won’t change anything, you know,”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Yes, you do,” Aymeric got up out of the sweet warm bed to wrap Oma’ya in his arms, careful of the horns poking his chest. “What happened here wasn’t your fault. I doubt even the Elder Seedseer could have saved him. Ysayle, Estinien, Gosetsu, none of them were your fault.” 

 

“I know that. I want to do this for myself. If I’m a healer I won’t be fighting. I can distance myself from the weapon I used to be,” Oma’ya murmured. “I wanna start living _my_  life.” 

 

Aymeric held him tighter.

 

“Okay. If that’s what you know in your heart of hearts that is best for yourself who am I to question you. Do remember that I am here for you whenever you need it, and that it is no burden unto me, understand?” 

 

Oma’ya wiped a tear he didn’t even know had slipped out. 

 

“Yes, Lord Commander,” he said. The two had a good chuckle at his cheek. “But you have to talk to me too, yeah? Overworking yourself isn’t gonna make Ishgard rebuild itself any faster.”

 

With a kiss, the two parted for the rest of their days. Aymeric headed to the Seat of the Lord Commander and Oma’ya to the Athenaeum Astrologicum. It was already midmorning.

 

That night, after Aymeric succumbed to the wine Oma’ya plied him with, one Au Ra snuck out of the window and leapt to the ground. He raced to the chocobo stables where Saturn was waiting for him, saddled up and ready to go. The destrier chocobo was more than strong enough to carry Oma’ya through the snow to Coerthas. Once there, he fell to all fours on the snowy knoll, feeling around with his hands in almost irreverent fervor, searching for solid ground. Oma’ya’s hands eventually brushed the permafrost ground and he gave a cry of triumph. The ground was frozen solid, perfectly conducive for what he was about to try. Leveva might begrudge not being there to see history being made, but he couldn’t care less. 

 

Stars bloomed into life over the Coerthas Central Highlands that night, celestial bodies brought low and laid out on the earth in formations only known to a few, held in stasis for hours. Those stationed at the Observatory would swear in future years that the Fury herself descended to Eorzea. While Ishgard slept, one astrologian knelt in the snow, cards spinning around him in seeming chaos and star globe flying high overhead. 

 

The seeming miracle disappeared after the midnight hour passed but it was already recorded in Coerthas history. The Lady of Crowns was visible for days afterwards should one have the desire to look skyward. 

 

Oma’ya remained kneeling on the ground, checking for something, before he smiled and settled in for a long wait. One person left Ishgard last night. Two people rode home by dawn. 

 

***

 

Word arrived that morning of a disturbance in the central highlands and the first thing Artoirel did was jump on his chocobo and ride. He hoped in his heart it was nowhere near _that_ place but as he drew nearer to the crowd forming, that heart sank into his stomach. Would his brother have no peace, even in death? Artoirel forced his way through the crowd of muttering astrologians and Dragonhead knights to see what he most feared. The grave, previously undisturbed and peaceful, was a mess. The snow was gone, melted away and the previously immovable layer of permafrost dug up with abandon. The knights could not find any tracks of any animal, though there were claw marks in the soil surrounding the grave. Whoever had done it, the highlands had done their part to hide the trail. The only way that Artoirel knew it was a person, if his suspicions were correct it would be THE person, was that the shield was gone.

 

Without waiting for anyone to address him, Artoirel remounted and rode hard and fast back to Ishgard, all the way through the streets and into the Seat of the Lord Commander. The second in command, Lucia he thought her name was, blocked his way with her sword and held him there until she sent a squire up to rouse Ser Aymeric. It was his late morning day, she said, he was not to be unduly bothered. 

 

The squire had barely come back down the stairs when Artoirel shoved passed Lucia and dashed up those steps himself, murder in his eyes. Warrior of Light be damned, disturbing the rest of a son of Fortemps was unforgivable.

 

Seeing the two of them still in their bedclothes, entwined in the sheets drove Artoirel near to madness. The disregard, the _audacity_ _._ To lecture him in the name of preserving Haurchefant’s honor just the day before only to turn and commit a crime that not only made him a hypocrite but a heretic. 

 

Seeing them in bed enraged him. 

 

Seeing Haurchefant there with them, chest rising and falling softly, drove his breath from his lungs. 

 

Artoirel lost all momentum and his rage drained away. Oma’ya had been right the day before. Constant emotional changes exhausted the will. Artoirel slowly made his way to the bedside. The idea that he would now have the chance to make the reparations he promised before Haurchefant’s grave to the man himself, here alive and in the flesh at once excited and terrified him. He’d never thought he’d have to do it. The dead stayed dead before. By some miracle of Oma’ya’s doing his brother was returned to him and at once Artoirel had never felt so outcast. Here he was a voyeur intruding upon something to which he had no right. The three of them on the bed, legs and arms all wrapped around one another as if they feared they’d be taken from each other whilst they slept. They needed nothing else but each other and that prospect terrified Artoirel. In the past life, Haurchefant very obviously needed him and the members of House Fortemps, the bastard son looking to please the family that never truly accepted him. Artoirel at the time could not see it but he had always taken comfort in that face, that disparity of power that kept him safe. No one would ever think the bastard son a worthy contender of any position of familial power. 

 

Now, a dead man brought back to life by a miracle,  Haurchefant needed them no longer. And who knew what sort of magics Oma’ya could work. For a man who could channel the power of Bahamut, manipulating the mind would be no large task. For all Artoirel knew, Haurchefant could remember nothing of his life in Ishgard. For all intents and purposes, the man on the bed was not his brother. 

 

“You’re right. He’s not.” Artoirel didn’t know he’d said that part out loud. 

 

Oma’ya’s dark purple eyes with their glowing limbal rings stared at him from underneath Aymeric’s protective arm. 

 

“Whatever you have to say, you’ll have to wait until we feel like letting anyone meet him.” 

 

No warning was given before the cane was grabbed and Artoirel found himself expelled from the room and the door slammed in his face, quietly, by a gust of wind. When he finally picked himself off the floor he found Lucia staring down at him with a decidedly threatening eyebrow raised. He shuffled out of the doors into the snow not a minute later. 

 

He never really got the chance to apologize after the fact, as Oma’ya and Haurchefant rode out of Ishgard in the hours following his disastrous attempt at a visit. Artoirel had to hand it to the Warrior of Light. He certainly knew how to bring the drama. They walked down the main road from the Seat of the Lord Commander without so much as a single disguise, pink and silver hair gleaming and fingers intertwined with Ser Aymeric, who walked between them. The both of them climbed into the back of whatever shiny black monstrosity of Garlond’s design and drove as far as the airship landing before taking off and disappearing into the Sea of Clouds. Not before giving a kiss to the Lord Commander and a promise to come back for him. 

 

“Whenever being a benevolent dictator gets too tiring and you wanna take me up on my offer of adventure,” he’d said. 

 

It was little consolation to the people of Ishgard that one third of the trio stayed behind. As far as they were concerned, because Hilde’s people were nothing if not expert gossipmongers, that the Warrior of Light and the long dead Lord Haurchefant, knight of the people, were leaving them forever. That fact set them more to unease than that of the seeming resurrection of a beloved figure of society. People mourned Lord Haurchefant when he’d died, to each in their own ways and to have him back only served to heighten the myth surrounding Oma’ya and his deeds. For someone who’d seemingly given up the martial life in exchange for one providing succor, he had not ceased in creating miracles. 

 

No fuss. No explanations. Highly dramatic. Just in what was coming to be known as the new Warrior’s style. For all that the act of reviving a long dead man to full health theoretically meant shattering all knowledge of healing and the concept of mortality, the two of them just… flew off. When questioned, Lady Leveva only expressed her joy that a long lost Sharlayan theorem found life in Oma’ya’s capable hands. 

 

*** 

 

In the Regalia-G, Oma’ya leaned over to stare at Haurchefant sitting in the passenger seat. He still could not believe everything worked. In the depths of his heart Oma’ya thought at least one thing would go wrong and it all would be for naught, as it so often was with his adventures. Haurchefant noticed him staring and returned the gaze with a blindingly familiar smile, one that creased his eyes and lifted his cheeks. 

 

“It still is strange, you know. Opening my eyes not in the Fury’s halls but in my beloved’s arms,” he said. Oma’ya looked away, partially unable to keep staring and partially to avoid crashing the car into a floating island. 

 

“Where are we going anyway? Not that I begrudge you anything, but I like to know where my dates are taking me,”

 

“Kugane. I’ve got a home there, where we can stay as a base camp of sorts.” Oma’ya glanced one more time at Haurchefant, reached back into one of the compartments and pulled out a small wooden box. “I’ve no idea how you Ishgardians do it but I didn’t learn goldsmithing for nothing so you should take this.” 

 

Inside the box, two rings nestled in crushed velvet gleamed. They’d allow one wearer to teleport to the location of the other over practical distances, so Oma’ya and his lovers would never be truly apart again. There existed a third slot in the box, but that was empty, the occupant presumably adorning Aymeric’s finger. Haurchefant withdrew one, the larger of the two and found it fit his finger like a glove. 

 

“It’s a bonding ring, you know. Just thought I’d tell you what you’re getting into so you know. Just in case, you know, you wanna spend your second life somewhere else. I’m not saying you  _have_ to do anything really. Um, everything went better in my head but I’m asking if you wanna bond to us, okay?” By the end of his words Oma’ya’s cheeks flamed and were it not for his facial scales the whole sky would be alight with this blush. 

 

Hauchefant cut him off before he could say more by placing the be-ringed hand on his thigh, causing Oma’ya to jerk upwards and made the Regalia take a sharp climb before he could regain control. The Au Ra looked everywhere with intensity except the warm hand on his thigh. Oh gods, he could feel the warmth through his robes. Haurchefant wore a long coat of wool and fur gifted by Aymeric, that was slightly too long for him yet made him look the noble he always was. However that meant there was no armored glove to keep his hand from wreaking havoc on Oma’ya cognitive processes. 

 

The stare Haurchefant was giving him did things to Oma’ya’s brain, things he never felt as strongly when under Hydaelyn’s influence, and he revelled in it, the sheer emotional strength of it all that swept over him. The freedom to feel what he wanted to feel was something he did not expect to come out of shattering the crystal’s control, but it was a welcome surprise. 

 

It was a blessing when they landed in Kugane, right outside the apartment complex where Oma’ya chose to make his home. According to him, having neighbors so close by made it harder for assassins to sneak in, since everyone in the building was a fellow adventurer. To the constantly attacked Warrior of Light, isolation was asking for it. The interior, Oma’ya decorated with spoils from his travels and he took great joy in explaining them to Haurchefant, as they’d be out on the road making their own memories soon enough. 

 

“If we are lucky, mayhap we’ll encounter Estinien on our travels. Travelling with no companion but one’s own shame and regret must grow old quickly,” Ever one to make friends and acquaintances, Haurchefant was. He cast then a sly glance at Oma’ya, who stood off to the side putting on something from the dresser. It was prime fishing time in the rivers nearby. 

 

There would be no fishing, however, as he found himself spun around and kissed within an inch of his life for the hundredth time since the night previous. Their foreheads rested against one another after the both of them had to come up for air, a bit awkward with the horns in the way but doable. 

 

“To think we’d be free to adventure and travel as we please, and all it took was my death,” Haurchefant breathed. Oma’ya squished his face in his hands. 

 

“Never say that again, but I'd raise you a thousand times if that’s what you wanted. To continue adventuring with me.”  His own cheeks were squished in retaliation. 

 

“Of course. I won’t leave again until the two of you do.” 

 

They shared a laugh there, in the admittedly small apartment filled with memoirs of bloodier times. The both of them would not stay long though. After collecting a set of paladin’s armor and the appropriate sword and shield for Haurchefant, they left once again, heading for Ul’dah. Oma’ya had an old rusty axe to grind with the leader of the Monetarists.  


End file.
